


On Point

by cryogenia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set during EoT.) Others may try to lead him, but he is the Master and he will come when he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Point

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "fetish - collar, hands tied". Apparently in my mind that meant OC/Simm!Master.

“Come here, Fido.”

The orderly with his chain yanks his arms behind his back before he can finish the final line to his subroutine.

“I was typing,” the Master says, quite reasonably for someone who has been denied a closing parens. 

“Tough shit,” the man grunts. He is a laughable stereotype of a muscle man, all Nordic abs and bleached tips. The Master hates that they currently share a hair colour.

“Mistress wants you.”

“And she’s welcome to see me,” the Master says, rattling his ankle shackle hard against the desk. “Anytime. I’m not exactly going to walk out.”

The orderly ignores him in favour of wrapping the straight jacket around his front once more. The Master tries not to roll his eyes. He has been moved three times in as many hours and he’s beginning to tire of this little charade. The humans act like being free is such a  _privilege_ , like he should bow down and kiss the mahogany they walk on for letting him up to take a piss. They have no concept of control, if they think operant conditioning could ever work on him. When this program is complete, he thinks he will eat at least a half dozen of them. 

The collar is back too, a saucy little red number with a matching short-strap leash. It’s rather fetching, if wildly inappropriate for its theoretical use. The orderly wraps it around his neck and he licks his lips ever so slightly.

“You do realise that’s not a proper hospital restraint?” the Master says, to distract himself from the feel of slick leather rubbing on skin. Bait and distract, to protect a sensitive area, and oh how he loves to bait this sorry brute. ”Brought that one from home, did we?”

The orderly merely grunts and pulls the strap tighter, almost to where it cuts into the skin. The Master masks his intake of breath with a disapproving glare, like the hiss is from pain and the squirming is impatience. 

“I bet you like it,” he breathes, and oh, he feels the throbbing, one-two-three-four are the pulses at his throat, beating heavily against the leather and yearning to get out.

“Pretty little man, tied up at your mercy?” Hair colour notwithstanding, he is rather fetching, this time around. “Oh, you’re gagging for it, aren’t you. You’d pay them just for the chance to cart my arse around.”

The orderly snarls and  _yanks_ on the collar as he loops the long end back through, and the Master swallows the noise his body wants to make. This ape is so laughably homophobic, as if his descendants won’t be fucking every vertebrate (and invertebrate) they can get their pitiful pricks into within the next ten centuries. The leather is grinding in all the right places and he rubs his thighs together, feeling the blood roil down his belly. If he has to be ‘restrained’ like this, if he has to have something pressing those sensitive pheromone glands, why not have them do it right? 

“Shut it, freak,” the ape says, and bends down to unlock the shackle chaining the Master to the computer desk. Oh, it would be so tempting to kick him. But then he’d be strapped back to that insufferable wheelchair, and how would he goad the idiot into ‘leading’ him?  The Master feigns obedience as the Naismith’s bargain-bin Ken doll fumbles stupidly with his key ring. 

_If your so-called ‘advanced’ species had a proper olfactory system_ , he sighs, rolling his neck just a little,  _you could_  taste  _how good this actually is. Idiot._

The man straightens up and wraps the leash around the side of his hand, authoritative and scowling. The Master resists the urge to point out that a sufficiently large dog could easily break several fingers this way. He is starting to break out in a fine shimmer of sweat and oh, he needs to move.

“March,” the orderly commands, and the Master needs no encouragement to slide carefully out of the chair to walk in front of the man. The straight jacket tails are slightly too short to cover an erection, but if he keeps his ‘master’ in back of him, he can allow the urge of arousal. The orderly yanks at the lead to stop him, and he goes ramrod stiff, grinning gleefully to himself at remembering such opportune words.

The man makes an awkward, wide loop around the Master to open the door to the corridor, obviously not even risking a look at the Master. Another benefit to winding the fool up. Now that the spectre of pricks had been raised ( _another fine innuendo!_ ), the big, bad muscle man is trembling like a quail.

“What’s the matter,” the Master purrs, rolling his neck again, and oh, he doesn’t bother to hide the way his lips fall open this time.

“Big prick like you afraid of a little one?”

“I said, shut the  _fuck_  up,” the man snarls, surging through the door, and the way he hauls on the leash nearly brings the Master to his knees. The drums lash out with wicked fury, unhappy at being commanded anywhere, but the pleasure is equally intense. Others of his species would suffice with a kiss to that region of the throat, but he is the Master and he is made of stronger stuff; he won’t settle for anything less than a good, solid bite.

‘Ken’ (he might as well be Ken, little plasticine fake) slams the door shut and hurls the Master against it, right up in his face, like his fury is supposed to mean something. The Master’s vision flares white as his head thumps back against the wood, and no, no he doesn’t like that bit at all. It takes the edge off the rush of arousal, and tilts the balance back toward the drums, and no, the gate is so close, he’ll still need to concentrate to finish it.

“Little shit,” the meathead says. His breath is hot and poisonous, but his blue eyes are frightened. Pathetic, petty, insignificant creature.

“I could break you over my knee.”

“And I could eat you alive,” the Master growls back. He winces only a little, then goes straight on the offence.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?  My mouth sliding down on you. My tongue up your thigh. I could swallow you whole right here in this corridor, and you would _beg_ me for the privilege.” 

The orderly cocks back his fist and the Master responds with a psychic one, diving in to disable that part of his motor cortex with surgical precision.

“You don’t want to do that,” he informs Ken, as nonchalantly as if they were discussing the weather. “You want to  _touch_  me.”

He reaches into the man’s surface thoughts, seizing the images he knew would be there - the Master on his knees, naked and begging pitifully for Ken’s cock. He takes them and twists them sideways into a suggestion, leans back hard against the door. 

Rassilon, but his neck  _hurts_.

“I am the Master and you will  _suck me_ ,” he pants, spreading his legs as far he can without actually collapsing. The man groans and tears at the front of the Master’s jeans so hard the top button gives.

“Use the leash,” the Master commands, giving the man the image, letting him think it’s entirely his idea. It is, for the most part. He likes to think he is a good judge of gullible people, and this moron honestly believes this is the best use for a captive under his laughable ‘command’. Ken tugs on the leash so hard the Master sees stars; when he can breath again there is a tongue against his cock. He’s so glad he wasn’t able to steal pants.

“Suck me,” he says again, less psychic suggestion and more reflexive moan, the human’s fingers are fumbling and he’s obviously inexperienced, but it doesn’t matter because he’s tugging on that leash again, squeezing the back and sides of the Master’s neck harder. The urge to mate, to find some tight space and _fuck_  is irresistible. It doesn’t matter that humans are too hot, it doesn’t matter that this numbskull slobbers too much and licks too little, his blood is up and the scent of his own arousal is everywhere in the airless corridor, and he throws his head back and shoves his cock all the way down the bastard’s throat.

Distantly he hears footsteps trip-tapping their way, the pink-dressed hellion coming to check on them, no doubt, and he speeds up his thrusting. He changes his expression to terrified simpering, making pitiful noises at the high end of his vocal register. The man’s mouth is like lava and it’s so hard to grow close, but he scrunches his eyes shut and imagines a brown head between his legs instead. 

“Say my name,” he commands ( _not begs, never begs_ ) and reaches back into his own memories for the answer.  

_Master_ , the Doctor cries out at the end of the universe, and he comes harder than he has in the last decade.

There is a screeching sound at the other end of the corridor, and dimly he is aware the Naismiths have discovered their little tryst. The orderly is flailing like a dying fish between his legs, trying to come up with any excuse for his behaviour. The Master holds very quiet and still and tries to look as small and as put-upon as possible. When the Naismith girl comes up to take his leash, he gives her a teary-eyed, lying little smile.

Others may try to lead him, but he is the Master, and he will come only when  _he_ wants to.


End file.
